As it turns out, I did not die in a tornado. I also didn’t go down to the basement, because I looked at the cats and decided that I couldn’t possibly take them both down there again, both because they’re abnormally heavy but also because, for all the fight they put up to keep from going down there, once we’re all in the basement together, it’s like their favorite thing in the world to pace around yowling and then hide in the spiderhole under the stairs when I try to bring them back up into the apartment. Being a pet owner is exhausting.

Instead of going to the basement, I herded the cats into the bathroom and sat in the tub with Bossypants by Tina Fey. Not a bad reading spot, the bathtub. I should probably clean it if I ever feel like wearing a black t-shirt in there again, but other than that, it’s cozy, quiet, and free of distractions like TV.

My main complaint about the Kindle is that there aren’t any page numbers. Page numbers are something I’m so used to that even though the Kindle has a percentage-completed tracker, I still miss them. I have no idea which page of Bossypants I’m on, but I’m now about 77% of the way through. It’s a good book. It’s mostly a memoir, I guess, and the only ex-boyfriends it talks about are the ones who inspired the most pathetically funny stories. Which is how I prefer to read (and write) about ex-boyfriends, actually. I don’t give a shit that Mr. X broke your coffee table by fucking other girls on it but you kept taking him back because your shrink says you have abandonment issues with your father. That’s boring. I want to hear about the boy whose lap you sat on at the roller rink when someone made you laugh so hard that you peed on yourself and, by extension, him. Those are the good ones. Overall, though, it’s refreshing to not read about someone’s ex-boyfriends all the time, and to read more about their career, which is not only hilarious but completely deserved. Also Tina Fey has backfat. Well. Allegedly. She says she has backfat but she’s also practically child size so her definition of backfat is probably very different from mine.

Which brings me to something I wrote last weekend:

I found this photo on Tumblr the other day and experienced a dual reaction. One part of me thought “get in my mouth NOW,” while the other part of me thought “this is one of my worst nightmares.” Because it is. This may not sound very scary to most of you, but I’ve been dreaming about this pastry counter (or one very much like it) for a long time, and it’s one of the most stressful dreams I’ve ever had.

So I’m in this pastry shop, right? And sometimes it’s an ice cream shop or a fancy confectionary shop. I’m in there and I can buy something, but it’s hours before I can decide what I want, because not only am I indecisive, but every time I make a decision, someone buys the last one out from under me or I wasn’t really looking at what I wanted and it’s turned into something totally different by now. And then, if by some miracle I decide what I want and it’s still there and real (dream real, I mean), the price is something like $3,000.00 and I walk away sad and empty handed.

Also, in a lot of these dreams, this shop is either located in a mall (in which I can never find the exit/my car in the parking garage) or next to a creepy haunted house where I end up trapped in the basement.

But nobody wants to hear about someone else’s dreams, so these are the things I’d like to eat right now. Bring them, please?

Speaking of delicious things, you know what’s going to suck? When Christina Hendricks gets really skinny someday and claims that she did it for her health. What I mean is, she’s not fat and not outwardly unhealthy, but this is the kind of lie that gets into the heads of insanely hot women who don’t fit into anything below a size 6 (which they’ll lie about and bump up to 8, because supposedly that makes them more normal). This is not to say that skinny women are not attractive. They are. But the pervasive belief that only skinny women are attractive and that anything else is not only ugly, but medically unsound, is maddening.

And it’s not just because most of us aren’t built that way. I mean, that’s the story of everyone’s life. It’s that when the women who look like we do buy into that bullshit, it’s like they’re defecting from the team. Like, “lol bye bitch!” and “all that shit I said about loving my curves was me LYING.” I’m aware that this shouldn’t be a concern, but I’m just thinking about all the things I would devour right now and how hard I want to slap anyone who would tell me I shouldn’t.

I mean really. The way she looks now is perfect. I’m pretty sure that even NPH has a boner in this photo:

And I’ve got a boner for this one:

Someone please explain to me how this backfat should be banished to the No Jobs/No Money/No Respect side of the room. I’d really like to hear it, and then shove an entire pie in your face because, as much as I hate to waste a perfectly good pie, shoving it in your face is better than hearing the sound coming out of it.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.